


Face Value

by ratedgrandr



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Piningjolras, not much more to say here?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratedgrandr/pseuds/ratedgrandr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras doesn’t realize what he wants until it’s too late. Rated T. Parnasse/R undertones of e/R. Warning: jealous Piningjolras ahead! Probably more chapters to come because Renee convinced me and I really just love R.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face Value

When Montparnasse starts to come around, no one thinks much on it.

 

He never comes for the meetings, only to drink after, and he doesn’t bother with pleasantries and small talk, doesn’t take up much time, is just… there. Sitting next to Grantaire, passing occasional words with the cynic, usually encouraging him to drink more and care less. And when his hand slips onto Grantaire’s knee, slowly sliding further up his thigh, almost as if marking his territory for the Amis to see, no one thinks on it. Especially not Enjolras.

And when they come in one night, hair mussed and lips swollen with stolen kisses shared on the car ride over, when Enjolras recognizes the shirt adorning Montparnasse’s torso as one he gave to Grantaire last Christmas, he feels something burst in his chest, as if he’s been broken, and there’s a swelling sound in his ears, probably the rush of blood coloring his cheeks as Grantaire catches his eye from across the room and ducks his head, looking away. He ignores the arm slung around the artist’s hips, looks away when Montparnasse presses soft kisses to his neck at the pulse point, and Enjolras can only imagine the skin, warm from the blood rushing beneath it, so alive and so vivid like the paintings he creates.

When Parnasse dares to call him ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘babe’ in front of his friends, boasting about the status of their oddly functional relationship, Enjolras finds himself hating the Musain a little bit more. He hates the way the stench of alcohol fills his nose and reminds him of what isn’t his, hates the way it reminds him of things he will never have, not now that he’s missed his opportunity. He tries to focus on his work, on the cause, on anything that isn’t Montparnasse’s hand tangled through Grantaire’s thick curls, tugging and revealing the beauty in the curve of Grantaire’s neck, how smooth his skin is there. It makes Enjolras realise how badly he wants to place tender kisses against that stark white skin, to praise the cynic, show him how perfect he truly is. He doesn’t deserve the rough way Montparnasse sucks bruises - imperfections - to the surface there, like a leech sucking what he needs out of Grantaire and then leaving him when he’s been completely emptied of his worth.

When four weeks and two days in (he’s not purposefully keeping count, he just remembers) Grantaire walks in for the first time in three days, Enjolras’s heart sings at the fact that for the first time the cynic is alone and on time for a meeting. Maybe, just maybe they are through, his mind eggs, maybe Grantaire has realized just how idiotic he’s being, and… and Enjolras’s mind stops as soon as he notices it. The way Grantaire’s hands tremble ever so slightly against the glass he’s holding, the way his eyes are sunken and slightly bloodshot, probably from lack of sleep. There are noticeable bruises coloring the skin around Grantaire’s eye, and Enjolras can’t help but wonder what’s going on behind closed doors, what has his friend so destructed, so broken and bent that he won’t even make eye contact from across the room. Enjolras misses the Grantaire who sneered at his talk of freedom and equality for all. He misses the interruptions and the heated debates, misses the life he could see glistening in those brown eyes, giddy with drink but still conscious. Now all he sees is the shell of a man, a man he so longs to help and lift up.

So he does what he hasn’t done in ages: Enjolras orders himself a pint and immediately seats himself directly between Courfeyrac and Grantaire, stopping whatever conversation has been going on.

There’s a muffled kind of groan from Grantaire and Courfeyrac almost looks relieved, the man can’t help but notice. He grimaces as he catches the stench of stale cigarettes and whiskey that wafts off of Grantaire, but doesn’t bother acknowledging it or breeching that topic, because he can already feel a tightness in the pit of his stomach when Grantaire’s phone lights up with a text from Montparnasse, one that causes Grantaire to flush prettily and stuff his phone into his pocket.

“I haven’t seen you around lately,” Enjolras states evenly, his tone smooth despite the way his whole body is wrecked thinking of Montparnasse, the way he has marked Grantaire as his so pointedly, probably for exactly this reason. It twists his insides, makes him hate the criminal of a man Grantaire calls a boyfriend even more.

Grantaire only shrugs and gulps down his beer, eyes averted and a sigh parting his chapped lips. “I’ve been busy with boxing,” he deadpans, hoping Enjolras will leave and take his questioning looks with him but knowing this conversation is only just getting started. Grantaire can’t help but wonder when Enjolras started caring, because before now it had taken all of his willpower to get so much as a distant look from the blond man he would have killed for. Still would kill for, his mind corrects him as he finishes his beer and stands, swaying slightly as he runs a hand through his hair.

Enjolras arches a brow and his hand twitches as if to catch Grantaire’s. The artist’s fingers are stained with golds and reds and blacks, hues he can only imagine painted across a canvas, hues that Enjolras wants transferred onto his skin in a hot release, in a way that would make him flush and would twist his soul in utter pleasure. Things he can’t have now, things he never knew he wanted until this exact moment in time. His hand stays still though, for Grantaire’s hand isn’t his to catch. He wants to tell the artist to sit, stay awhile, to chat and talk to him and open himself up… but it’s not meant to be.

“Parnasse is waiting for me, I just stopped by to… to…” Grantaire trails off, unsure of why he’s even come here in the first place. His life has moved on, but it seems as if his mind refuses to wrap around this. “I’ll see you two tomorrow,” he murmurs softly before stalking out. Enjolras flushes and nods and Courfeyrac calls out a strained goodbye. It isn’t until he’s gone that it registers in his head the red hoodie that Grantaire had worn, the one he’d borrowed after an accident at the Musain that had left him shirtless from spilled beer.

 

The simple idea of Grantaire still wearing something of his oddly warms his heart, and he can’t help but sail on this newfound wind through the rest of the day, hoping it means more than just face value.


End file.
